


EVEN SAUCIER FICTION!!

by maximum_overboner



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Smut, Comedy, Gen, Other, Papyrus writes a book, it's terrible, sans suffers very much but he loves him, very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: Papyrus’ magnum opus is complete. His romance novel. Blood, sweat, tears, and a fundamental misunderstanding of what sex entails, all culminating in his life’s work. His baby. Now he could live the lifestyle of a brooding, melancholy writer, and be hipper than ever. If it can survive a critique from Sans, that is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> here it is! i've posted about this on my tumblr, but hopefully this will catch a few people by surprise! ^^ [a sequel to this, but you don't need to read it to understand what's happening. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7516526)
> 
> happy reading!

“so, you excited?”

  
Papyrus shifted in his chair, hard and wooden, under the stark lighting of the kitchen, the halogen making him feel as if he was about to be interrogated. He did not want to do this. But the writers forums he had visited said that having your work looked over with a fresh pair of willing eyes did wonders, no matter the... Content. Dozens of people said he should. Begged, even. Repeatedly. And Sans already knew about his hobby. He had two week off, too, vacation time, so he could read with no interruptions.

  
Undyne would probably tear the house in two with her bare hands if something happened in the book that she didn’t agree with, at least Sans could communicate without shouting. The embarrassment could be worked through, it was a kind thing Sans was doing after all, they were both reasonable, rational adults, who could appreciate a nice pair of the ol’ jiggly jooglies like the respectable men they were.

  
Sans’ strained smile wavered, just a tad.

  
“you ok?”

  
Papyrus nodded. He had looked up ‘things writers do’ on Undernet to prepare himself for this conversation, so he could be taken seriously. He had gotten the writing part done, so that was that checked off the list. It had said to drink coffee, so he had shotgunned five espressos, and though his energy was boundless he also felt that he wasn’t real, and that he was everywhere and nowhere, and thus it was not a good call.

  
“SANS,” Papyrus jittered. “SANS I’M EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE.”

  
“aww, you don’t have to be. you’re my baby bro, i don’t mind reading this stuff over.”

  
“WELL, IT’S... THIS IS ALL VERY PRIVATE! YOU WOULDN’T WANT ME KNOWING ABOUT YOUR... PREFERENCES.”

  
“eh, i don’t mind,” he lied, minding immensely but crushing his cringes, “we’re adults. me, i like a nice, squishy ass--”

  
Papyrus shook his head vehemently, doing his best to strike the conversation from his mind, while his appreciation for what Sans was about to do increased tenfold. He was all ease and smiles, but the whiskey bottle sat to his right, with a stubby glass filled with ice cubes. A little sting to ease the process because God, what a process it was going to be. But if Papyrus wanted to be a published writer, then he would be. And though he didn’t doubt Papyrus’ enthusiasm for a second, Sans had a sneaking suspicion that Papyrus lacked the necessary experience to describe the scenarios he had set out. It wasn’t concrete. But his repeated use of ‘BOOBER’ did not help his case.

  
Sans looked to the door-stopper of a first draft, hundreds of pages of printer paper held together with staples, dreams, and on the top left, a long-dried mystery fluid he wanted to deny all knowledge of.

  
Sans took a breath, held it for eight seconds, and slowly exhaled. With an uncommon grace, Sans poured himself a whiskey, then left it there. It was his panic button if things were to go screeching downhill too quickly. He looked his brother in the sockets, before his gaze drifted upwards. Papyrus was wearing a fitted black turtleneck, black jeans, and had drawn bags under his eyes. His gaze drifted upwards still.  
  
“... what’s that.”

  
“A BERET.”

  
“why are you wearing a beret?”

  
Papyrus scoffed, as it was clear Sans didn’t know the first thing about being a creative visionary. “IT MAKES ME HIP, AND ANTI-ESTABLISHMENT. THIS WILL HELP SELL MY BOOK TO THE YOUNG ADULTS THAT DON’T LIKE WAITING IN LINE FOR THINGS, AND LOVE VANDALISING WALLS. THE DISENFRANCHISED YOUTH. TIPPING OVER GARBAGE CANS AND READING ROMANCE NOVELS.”

  
“people readin’ the book won’t know you’re wearing a beret.”

  
Papyrus adjusted it. His hat was more askew than ever. He was the voice of a generation.

  
“BUT I WILL.”

  
A sense of ease passed through Sans. Hard, and unpleasantly graphic as this task may be, it could never be called into question that his brother was a Cool Dude. It was a simple fact. Birds sing. Flowers bloom. Papyrus is cool. Recalling their last venture into erotic literature; Sans wandering in and reading it, Papyrus throwing himself in front of the screen like he was taking a bullet for the king, and the absolute avoidance on his end for a week until Sans pushed the idea enough, Sans began.

  
“papyrus... i’m gonna give you critique. i’m gonna give you critique, and i want you to promise me you won't take it too personally.”

  
“MY GOD SANS, I’M NOT A FLOWER THAT WILL WILT AT THE SLIGHTEST BIT OF STRAIN. I’M MADE OF TOUGH STUFF. TEAR ME A NEW ONE!! IF YOU CAN SOMEHOW, IN SOMEWAY, FIND A FLAW, I INVITE YOU TO POINT IT OUT. THOUGH THERE ARE NONE.”

  
“promise?”

  
“PROMISE.”

  
Sans sighed, relief coursing through his bones.

  
“’dr. pepyrus’ is clearly you--”

  
Papyrus, all at once, as if it had wracked him for hours, broke down into sobs, tears running down his face as Sans sat there, stunned. Thin fingers prised at his skull in stress as great, baleful heaves tumbled from his chest.

  
“ _MY WORK IS HOT GARBAGE, HAND IT BACK SO I CAN BURN IT AT ONCE!_ ”

  
“papyrus--”

  
“ _PURGE THE SLIME_.”

  
“i--”

  
“ _THIS IS THE WORST PIECE OF MEDIA EVER MADE_.”

  
“holy shit, dude, chill. i, um...”

  
Sans floundered, reaching over the table and patting Papyrus’ hand in a soothing effort, completely at a loss. Praise! That was it. He fed on it like a parched flower on water.

  
“...i like boob’s name. i think it’s... it’s cute?”

  
And all at once, the tears stopped.

  
“OH! THANK YOU,” Papyrus chirped, spirits lifted and brooding artist’s torment forgotten, “I THOUGHT SO TOO.”

  
A dense silence hung between them both, Sans watching on with his jaw agape.

  
“you promised you wouldn’t freak over critique.”

  
“I THOUGHT I HANDLED THAT WITH GRACE AND CANDOUR.”

  
“you sobbed.”

  
“SOMETIMES I BECOME OVERWHELMED WITH THE IDEA THAT EVERYTHING I MAKE IS ABSOLUTE, TOTAL GARBAGE FROM THE BOTTOM TO THE TOP, AND HAVE A GOOD OLD FASHIONED WAIL. IT’S ABSURD, I KNOW. AFTER ALL, I AM... AMAZING!”

  
“is that... is that healthy?”

  
“PROBABLY NOT! READ ON, BROTHER. GIVE ME THAT SWEET, SWEET VALIDATION. I AM THE SCREECHING CHILD AND YOU; MY LEAKY BOSOM.”

  
Sans resumed, whilst trying to put Papyrus’ turn of phrase out of his mind.

  
Boy.

  
Boy, those were a lot of errors. Sans was pretty sure commas don’t go there. He catalogued it in his mind.

  
Just to get a feel for it, for the book, Sans picked a random point, and began. The light around them was white, and clinical, and Sans felt as if he were about to dissect Papyrus’ beloved child in front of him. Tough love.

  
‘OH, (UNNAMED SEXY FEMALE PROTAGONIST)--’

  
Sans paused at once.

  
“what happened to your last protagonist? and i’m pretty sure you can’t just… use that as a placeholder, it’s jarring.”

  
“NO SPOILERS!”

  
“i’m your editor. spoil me.”

  
“... SHE DIED. I COULDN’T THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE TO DO WITH HER CHARACTER.”

  
“when did she kick the bucket?”

  
“CHECK PAGE TWENTY.”

  
Sans did, thumbing through and scanning the page. Ah, there we go. Steeling himself, and keeping the fact that Papyrus was an adult with adult… Inclinations in mind, despite his urge to wince, Sans began.

  
‘OH BRAVE DOCTOR PEPYRUS! WE’RE GOING TO BE SO HAPPY TOGETHER!’ BOOBS BOOBED.’

  
‘I KNOW WE ARE,’ FLEXED PEPYRUS, HIS CHEST OILED AND GLEAMING IN THE SUN--’

  
Sans glanced up, witheringly. “there’s gonna be a lotta oiled chests in this, ain't there?”

  
“I KNOW WHAT I LIKE,” Papyrus huffed.

  
‘--’WE SHOULD GET MARRIED!!’’

  
‘BOOBS IMMEDIATELY UNDID HER TOP, AND HER HEAVING TITTIES--’

  
“i’m gonna skim this part.”

  
“HOW CAN YOU HATE ART SO MUCH,” Papyrus grumbled, affronted. If he was going to critique the book he may as well plunge into the gritty, sticky details.

  
Sans ignored him, and winced as the pips of his eyes roamed, searching for some very ‘final’ verbs, rather than the pages of gruesome adjectives and unpleasant nouns that were assailing him. How many time did Papyrus need to use the word ‘sweaty’. Once was enough.

  
‘TURGID’, ‘QUIVERING’, ‘FOUNTAIN OF SEXUAL YOUTH’.

  
… Whatever an ‘EJACULATORY PARADE’ was.

  
‘RELEASE’. That was a good point to pick up from.

  
‘’PEPYRUS,’ BOOBS JIGGLED, SPENT LIKE A LOAN IN A CASINO, ‘YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN, BUT I’M AFRAID I’M STILL… DYING!!’’

  
‘BOOBS DIED IMMEDIATELY OF A VIOLENT MAMMARY ATTACK. IT WAS SAD. PEPYRUS CRIED.’

  
Sans downed the whisky to his right, pinched the bridge of his nasal bone, let out the shakiest sigh of his life, and returned his gaze to a beaming Papyrus, proud of his handiwork, basking in the perfect glow of his own creativity.

  
“... a mammary attack?”

  
“HER BOOBS WERE TOO STRONG, AND OVERWHELMED HER.”

  
Sans poured another two fingers, and downed them just as quickly. It burned thickly, but it dulled the ache of reading it. It was creative, though. Perhaps too creative. ‘Not publishable’, he thought, but Sans would have done anything for this to be the final draft, and have it be successful.

  
“... a mammary attack.”

  
“AN ATTACK OF THE MAMMARIES, YES.”

  
“how does that play out?”

  
“HER MAMMARIES,” Papyrus sighed, exasperated, beret flopping in disdain, “GREW TOO NEEDY, AND SIPHONED OFF HER LIFE-FORCE IN A NIPPLE BASED COUP D’ÉTAT THAT LED TO HER DEATH.”

  
“you’re sayin’ words, but they aren’t fitting together.”

  
The burning question presented itself. The one that could no longer be ignored. A key facet in writing a sexual story. The core. The crux.

  
“papyrus… have… have you ever even slept with--?”

  
“OF COURSE I HAVE! DON’T BE ABSURD!”

  
“it’s--”

  
“I’VE SEEN THREE WHOLE TITTERS, SANS! _THREE! I’M A REGULAR CASANOVA!_ HOW MANY HAVE YOU SEEN?”

  
Sans’ considerable patience wore thin. He was more qualified to be reviewing this stuff, it was just a fact, he had successfully put his penis in a whopping three people.

  
“four. _i touched ‘em, too._ ”

  
“LIES!! ALSO, WHAT DID THEY FEEL LIKE?”

  
“soft.”

  
Papyrus removed his beret, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with it.

  
“HEAVENS TO BETSY!”

  
Papyrus bobbed his legs, excited at the prospect of showing someone else his darling, and shaking at the prospect of it potentially being torn to shreds.

  
“HELP ME COME UP WITH NAMES! I CAN’T USE BOOBS COMELY AGAIN, THIS IS ABOUT HER SEXIER COUSIN... BOSOMS FANTASIA.”

  
“no.”

  
“VELVET TOOT?”

  
“is a disease, i think.”

  
“TORRID SQUIRT?”

  
“i actually feel kinda ill.”

  
“CINNAMON GAM?”

  
“there’s that word again.”

  
“WELL, YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO PICK ONE.”

  
“... bosoms fantasia.”

  
With a delighted huff, the female protagonist of the century had been given a name. Long, slender. Has a personality, maybe.

  
“I DECIDED TO CHANGE THE SETTING.”

  
“oh?”

  
“SPACE WAS NOT WORKING FOR ME AS AN INITIAL SETTING, I’VE CHANGED IT TO FUTURE-ROME, AND THEN THEY’LL END UP IN SPACE. I SCANNED AN UNDERPEDIA ARTICLE, AND THE TWO PARAGRAPHS I ABSORBED REALLY SPOKE TO ME!”

  
“cool. i gotta warn ya, i don’t... really know the first thing about rome. any of it.”

  
“IT’S FINE, THIS WILL TEACH YOU! IT’S BASED IN FACT! IT STARTS WHEN BOSOM AND PEPYRUS FISTFIGHT THE WOLVES THAT NURSE ROMULUS AND REMUS, AND MAKE THEM PASTA, BECAUSE WOLF MILK IS GROSS, SETTING OFF A GRUDGE THAT WILL LAST FOR GENERATIONS--”

 

* * *

 

 

  
“-- AND THEN, THEIR HOUSE, HOUSE BOSOM, LAST OF THEIR NAME, FIGHT THE SPACE WOLVES WHO HAVE COME LOOKING FOR REVENGE, SETTLING THEIR THOUSAND YEAR GRUDGE AND SPREADING THEIR WEREWOLF CURSE WITH THEIR SCARY DOG PENISES--”

  
“oh my god. i-- shouldn’t i just read this?”

  
“I’M SORRY, I’M JUST VERY EXCITED. GO ON. DON’T LET ME STOP YOU. THOUGH I DON’T THINK YOU’LL GET THROUGH IT ALL IN ONE SITTING.”

  
Sans looked to the tome in front of him, covered in doodles of an auspicious, big breasted woman, and a skeleton with huge muscles, and exquisite, shiny hair.

  
“how… big is this thing?”

  
“OH, YOU KNOW, IT’S JUST SOMETHING I DID IN A FEW AFTERNOONS.”

  
“a few afternoons?”

  
“ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND WORDS.”

  
Sans gawked at it.

  
“one hell of an afternoon.”

  
Papyrus wiggled his browbone, but stilled it upon remembering the company. “THAT IT WAS. BUT IT’S-- WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

  
Sans was jumping to the last paragraph. He wanted to see what happened.

  
‘AND SO ALL WAS SAID AND DONE. THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO BUT MOURN. FOR THOSE THAT HAD DIED IN A SENSELESS WAR THAT HAD ACHIEVED NOTHING. IT HAD STRETCHED LONG AND THIN LIKE FABRIC, UNTIL THE ORIGINAL PATTERN UPON IT MUDDLED, RENDERING IT VAGUE AND OBSCURED, UNTIL THAT TOO, WAS RUINED. CORPSES LITTERED THE FIELD; THE DEAD, AND THOSE UNLUCKY ENOUGH TO STILL BE ALIVE. AND PLUCKED FROM THE RUBBLE, FRAIL, AND THIN, BOSOMS LOOKED ON WEAKLY, SOAKED IN BLOOD AND SWEAT, REELING. BUT ALIVE. ‘BOSOMS,’ ROBO-PEPYRUS WHISPERED, HIS MAJESTIC FORM NOW COATED IN CHROME, TINTED AND RUSTED FROM YEARS OF FRUITLESS CONFLICTS. A SINGLE ROBO-TEAR ROLLED DOWN HIS CHEEK. ‘I’M GOING TO REACH INSIDE YOU UNTIL I CAN FONDLE THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF YOUR CLITORIS.’

  
Sans looked him in the eye, shame a distant memory.

  
“ _the clitoris is not inside the vagina_.”

  
Papyrus snapped. He stood, gesticulating wildly.

  
“YOU ARE A FOOL! YOU ARE A FOOL THAT DOES NOT UNDERSTAND BASIC ANATOMY. WHAT, IS THE CERVIX NOT ON TOP OF THE VAJENOR? DO YOU WANT ME TO DISREGARD ALL OF MY MEDICAL KNOWLEDGE?”

  
“it’s not inside the vagina. it’s the little bump on the outside, at the top. did you look up a diagram before you wrote all this?”

  
“NO, THAT’S _LEWD!!_ ”

  
“ _your book is lewd._ ”

  
“ _IT’S TASTEFUL! IT’S TASTEFUL, SENSUAL ROMANCE! THE TEN PAGE LONG FISTING SCENE IS FOR **CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!**_ ”

  
“i don’t think you can do that.”

  
Papyrus clattered his fist against the table, infuriated, the fruit bowl between them shaking under the force.

  
“IT’S A TURNING POINT IN BOSOM’S CHARACTER ARC! IT’S WHEN SHE LEARNS SHE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A PUPPET, WHILE AT THE SAME TIME, BEING CRAMMED FULL OF HAND LIKE A SOCKPUPPET-- DO YOU SEE, SANS?”

  
_“you can’t have tasteful fisting, ya fist, or ya don’t, but you can’t make it ‘tasteful’.”_

  
Papyrus was leaning in, inches from his face, and Sans held his ground.

  
_“THERE ARE DRAPES, AND SCATTER CUSHIONS, HOW MUCH MORE TASTEFUL CAN A FISTING GET?!”_

  
Suddenly, the absurdity of Papyrus’ statement hit him all at once, and he sunk back into his chair, sulking. There was an atmosphere, and Sans cleared it, sighing.

  
Papyrus reached into his pocket, and pulled out a battered cigarette, as well as a lighter that was familiar to Sans.

  
“... wait, is that a cigarette, where did you get--”

  
Papyrus squinted, fumbling at the lighter, thrumming the flint wheel uselessly under his thumb, coating it in a thin black soot while Sans looked on with weary resignation. Finally, it sparked, and came aflame, allowing him to light it.

  
“I FOUND IT,” Papyrus said, a hip young writer, brooding and tortured, wearing dark hats, staring out of windows on dark days, and thinking Dark Thoughts(™), “WHEN I WAS CLEANING YOUR ROOM.”

  
Sans narrowed his eyes, before recollection flooded him, though he looked up more confused than ever.

  
“loose ones? papyrus, i haven’t smoked in like five years, i don’t think--”

  
And now smoking cigarettes and casually writing about sex like it was no big deal, and not something that kept him awake at night in sweaty yearning. How modern, how cosmopolitan! It was unhealthy, certainly, but he had to allow himself some vices.

  
Papyrus took a draw, and held it, and Sans watched him with tempered amusement.

  
“how is it.”

  
Papyrus looked like he was going to combust. Smoke steadily leaking from his nasal bone as he clawed at his neck, eyes watering, clamped shut.

  
“havin’ fun.”

  
Papyrus nodded, on the verge of tears, the only thing keeping him from gasping being his iron willpower and the fact that he looked really fucking hip.

  
“cool.”

  
Sans watched him, taking in every facial expression, letting him take this mistake on the chin. Finally, Papyrus wheezed, hacking and spluttering with such force that he had to hold onto the table with his free hand, still clutching the cigarette with a forced casualness in the other hand.

  
“S--S--”

  
“yeah?”

  
“I--IT’S--”

  
“mhmm?”

  
“ _N--NICE_ ,” he lied through his pointed teeth, his repeated clattering of his fist on the table and the tears running down his face betraying his true enjoyment.

  
Sans, though he did not like to see Papyrus suffering, at all, let him wait it out. He would never take up smoking, then. Though he could never resist the opportunity to poke.

  
“y’know, you’re s’posed to smoke the whole thing. they’re expensive.”

  
Papyrus, if he had the capacity, would have blanched, eyes still runny.

  
“N-NO-- NO THANK YOU, I’M-- I’M SATISFIED FOR ANOTHER DAY! I CAN… FILL MY TIME WITH BROODING.”

  
“what about writing?”

  
“OH RIGHT, I FORGOT I’M MEANT TO DO THAT.”

  
Sans motioned to the steadily burning cigarette, with ash dripping from it.

  
“give it here.”

  
Papyrus handed it over, expecting him to stub it out at once, but to make his point Sans took a long draw, held it, exhaled, and then stubbed it out on the side of his whisky glass with no fanfare. No flinching, no crying. 

“SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU,” Papyrus grumbled, pride stinging.

  
“yup,” Sans exhaled.

  
Sans looked over the draft once again, with Papyrus in tears in front of him. Starting from the very beginning. This thing was getting read. So.

  
Help him.

  
God.

  
His brother was going to be published.

  
To focus his thoughts, Sans read aloud.

  
“ _there’s been a catastrophic boner crisis in the city of cocksworth._ ”

 

* * *

 

  
Sans’ spare time for the week was spent reading the draft, helping a very hesitant, very grumpy Papyrus to refine and mould it, until it became something dangerously close to a second draft. A bonding experience, if an unusual one. Though it was under the condition that Sans send some documents into work, typed up and looked over, as Sans had taken time off specifically for this occasion. Sans peeled himself from his mattress. They were due… Two hours ago, shit.

  
Pulling his old, barely functioning laptop up and opening it, Sans blearily picked a random document, and fired it off. He could send an old document, say that it was a mistake and that he had the correct one named wrongly, and the ‘error’ would give him time to type the thing up. Simple, really.

  
Sans drifted off back to sleep, his work put off for another day.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Gaster, Royal Scientist and all around dignified soul, as he would have you believe, was sitting in his desk chair, deep in contemplative thought. Mulling over the state of the Core, the low thrum of it reverberating through him, from his body to his soul, like a low, deep chuckle, that stretched on and on, a familiar noise that he enjoyed focusing on. His emails had been viewed. His paperwork, written, and filed. His commands, given through the medium of notes to terrified staff. His need for conversation, unfulfilled, as it was Sans’ vacation time, and very few of the staff could sign, and those that did were too scared of him to want to engage. No, it was simply a case of sitting, and waiting for things to unfold. Meetings, and readings, all ticking by, backed with the hum, like an electrical clock. Something appeared on his screen, and it cut through his ruminations.

  
Ah, Sans!

  
Smiling, he went to read it, his day that little bit brighter. Sans needed to submit some papers, and this opened an excellent avenue for a casual response that painted him as the friend he was, rather than a lonely gooseberry confined to his office. He could go for a conversation. It didn’t matter that it was work hours, it was fine when he did it. He read the subject line.

  
...

  
What the hell was this.

  
What--

  
Gaster blinked, then blinked again, then leaned forward until he was entirely off of the chair, hands braced to the desk.

  
This--

  
This was--

  
A worker was passing outside his office, boots thudding against the linoleum.

  
Throwing himself over the desk in a display of athleticism he hadn’t been able to muster up since he was two hundred, he deftly scooped up a notepad and pen, scrabbling to the door as if making a break for the exit in a prison. He threw it open with a clattering ring that echoed down the hallway, and a tall, mite-like man, with stumpy pincers and somewhat translucent skin, whipped around to look at the source of the ruckus, eyes widening when he saw his impending unemployment.

  
Gaster jabbed his finger in his direction, too impatient to care for manners.

  
“Y-Yes, Doctor?”

  
A scribble on the notepad, a scrunched piece of paper bouncing uselessly off of his face.

  
‘My meetings for the next week, any plans I might have, cancel them.’

  
“I’m a caterer, I don’t have any kind of--”

  
_‘I do not care._ ’

 

* * *

 

‘Sans.’

  
‘I’m not going to scold you for failing to submit your work as promised. I’m not going chide you for failing to do it at all, either, as I know you have done. I’m going to resign myself to knowing that you will end up sending it to me in a rushed, haphazard fashion, and I’m also going to resign myself to the fact that, despite that, it will probably be fantastic. Instead, I am going to tell you about what I believe you have mistakenly sent me.’

  
If Sans had a heart, it would be in his throat. He was very much awake now, too awake. He had checked his emails after putting off the process.

  
‘I could not help but notice a one hundred thousand word document sitting in my inbox, nestled between talks of meetings, and plans, and notes from the engineers. It stood out specifically, because it was entitled ‘SEX CONQUEST; HOW I EJACULATED TO SALVATION’. Now, compared to ‘sheet metal repairs going well’, and ‘staff morale up’, I do not think you could blame me for clicking it at once.’

  
No. Sweet Jesus, God, no.

  
‘A good, honest man would see the sensitive nature of the content, and the context in which it is presented, i.e., in error, and decline to read it. Unfortunately, I was in quite the thunderous mood, both as a consequence of you not being here to make my day to day life easier, and because it was just the mood I happened to court at that particular moment in time. So with both of those qualities stricken from my soul, I could read guilt free. Lucky me, Sans. Lucky. Me.’

  
_What kind of God would allow this_.

  
‘I do not think I have ever laughed so hard in my life. I do not say this lightly, I’ve lived a very long life after all, and where it not for the body I am stuck with I would be long dead, but I can say with a great deal of certainty; this is the worst piece of fiction ever penned. There is just enough knowledge of the anatomy involved to describe it, he does know the language, but the phrasing, my God, the phrasing! Am I, the reader, expected to masturbate to this? Am I expected to ‘flex my sex’ to the thirty page scene where Bosoms (Bosoms!) has an orgasm that lets her see into the future, for a reason that isn’t adequately explained, outside of her ‘BUSTING THROUGH TIME AND SPACE’? I do not think one person can sustain that; thirty pages was the in-book equivalent of around four hours. She would have passed out; either from the exertion, or from the fact she was spewing fluids like a hose. I’m surprised she didn’t lift off. If this is in earnest, and not the clever joke I hope it to be, then God help you. God help you both.’

  
Sans clenched his fists. This was too harsh. This wasn’t his job, this was Sans’, to look at first draft so cruelly--

  
‘It was at this point I broke my chair, which I am billing you for. I fell out of it, and lay prone, in hysterics, for what felt like an eternity. I may have passed out. I am not sure. I may have had a religious experience, again, I am not sure. All I know is that I saw white, and it may have been God, or it may have been my mind shutting down to desperately protect me. But, like the scholar I am, I carried on, weak in body and sore in the face.’

  
Sans could feel his magic crackling in the air around him, but suppressed it out of shame. This was his fault. Poor Papyrus. He tried so hard. He didn’t deserve this, and Sans had to bite his tongue or risk his job, his future, Papyrus’ security and happiness.

  
‘With that being said, I cannot ethically keep what I have read to myself. I am not cruel. I do not know the first thing about publishing, except that it requires a great deal of faith, and money. I have money. I will back you. There will be intricacies I will need to be taught, but any printing machinery you need hired, any artist, any binder, say the word and I will do so with great haste and no quarrel. If I had bones, I would have snapped them in twain with the force of my laughter. My chest would have caved in and I would have folded in on myself like a chair. Your brother either has a gift, or has a terrible, terrible curse. I would like to help you unleash it upon the world in any way I can. I eagerly await your response.’

  
Below was his signature, as always, and Sans could only stare at it, slack jawed, a torrid mixture of emotions plaguing his gut. Elation, tinged with the bitter sting of watching his brother be tore down so thoroughly.

  
‘P.S. Sans, please tell your brother that the clitoris is not inside the vagina. It’s not a pop-up book of sexuality you can root through as you please; everything has a fixed location. I have never heard of someone with a bad case of nomadic clitoris.’

  
‘P.P.S I thought of the ending scene, the part with the erotic musical number, and when ‘Pepyrus’ ejaculates rainbows that lift the werewolf curse plaguing the universe, when I was at home, alone, at two in the morning. I laughed so hard, and with such mania, that my neighbours called the Guard, assuming I had went mad and killed someone.’

  
‘Thank you, Sans. Thank you so, so much. Thank you for this. My God. My fucking _God_.’

  
Sans gulped. Steadying his voice, he called to his brother, waiting to wake up in reality once again, and looking forward to the experience.

  
“hey, paps.”

  
His voice was muffled; he was dusting in the hallway. “YES?”

  
“i... fired off your first draft accidentally, and, uh... um... your book is gettin’ published.’

  
“AHH,” Papyrus said, with a sage air of wisdom, of expectancy. “I TOLD YOU THERE WERE NO FLAWS.”

 

 


End file.
